


hell (by any other name)

by orphan_account



Series: war au's [6]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 16:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5632996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>War is messy, just like black hair ensnared in his fingers.</em>
</p>
<p><em>Love is death, like grime and blood smeared across Ackerman's neck by his lips.</em><br/>--<br/>He has a reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hell (by any other name)

**Author's Note:**

> guess who's back, back again. 
> 
> not my pride of sense of humor. 
> 
> \-- anyways, have a sort of abstract bs world war ii au piece because I fucking can. and I love war au's. It works. 
> 
> Bonus points if you can guess the battle lmao.
> 
> Also a slight cw: careless talk of death and just killing I guess? It's super vague but idk.

He thinks back on the moment often. At this point, he supposes that it's more of a stroke of sanity than any torture tactic—the way his face had fallen, eyes to the ground, with face gnarled into an ugly expression of discontent: one he had hoped to never see there, upon the man's face. 

But he also knows himself to be selfish, tanned fingers digging into the palms of his hands prior to marking of the next day, upon the canvas of rock come to serve as his home. 

(It's a different rock—different ledge each night, only serving as a comfort rather than any real purpose. He's lost track of time in the dirt, and he's lost himself in the blood.) 

It's the ridge, the terrain of nightmares with coral caves and dead vegetation; men don't survive. 

It's the South Pacific, and it's hell. 

His father had been disappointed in his enlistment. It didn't matter. He'd be fine without his approval—with that mark of disdain.

He'd be fine, fingers caked in blood and grime—extending outward at night for the man who'd been steady at his side since deployment. 

Eyes sharper than the swords of the enemy—words harsher than the soiled uniforms. They made a quasi love in the South Pacific. 

(If harsh gasps in the night could be called that—hushed breathing as their backs dig into the dirt of their shared foxhole, calloused hands not sure where to reach, gripping any skin available—mud brown streaks left by dirty nails and bloody smiles, leaving shameful crescents in skin. Only then, would it matter, he thinks.) 

_"I think I'm in love with you."_

_"Yeah?"_

_"Yeah."_

(And it's confirmation that he's not quite sure what they have—but pale hands dragging across his abdomen mid-night bring clarity. 

He really wishes they wouldn't—prays that they cease to.

With clarity comes realization; he sees what he's done, the faces of all the men come to pass at the end of his rifle. 

Maybe they shouldn't touch. Maybe it is destructive. 

He can't stop.

They won't stop.) 

"Touch me."

"No."

( _He killed that day._

_again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again..._ )

War is messy, just like black hair ensnared in his fingers. 

Love is death, like grime and blood smeared across Ackerman's neck by his lips. 

It's a stark contrast. 

He'd give anything to rid his hands of red. 

(Ackerman says this cannot go on.

Jaeger begs to differ.)

"This is codependence. Not _love._ "

"It's not so different."

Ackerman sighs. He thinks that Jaeger has a lot to learn. 

(And he does.)

* * *

It is the South Pacific, and they are falling apart. 

It is the South Pacific, and they have nearly lost it all. 

It is the South Pacific, and he cannot breathe. 

_What is this?_ he thinks. 

(He doesn't think; it is a murmur.

The man to Jaeger's right shrugs. He does not know the hell they are enduring either. 

Hell has no name, and they are burning.

It's an inferno.)

"Moderate midday temperature, 120 fahrenheit, huh?"

"Eh, _moderate._ What the fuck does that even mean anymore?"

And Levi Ackerman is cracking—battle hardened, man of Guadalcanal, of the _Old Breed_. Eren Jaeger smiles into his neck at the question.

Levi supposes he hadn't been expecting an answer, and Eren's ringing laughter holds none. 

The sun is unbearable, as is the knowledge they're not making it off of this island. 

Because—

—because it is the South Pacific, and they are going to die.

(There is machine gun fire that night. 

Only 9 men come out of that godforsaken ridge.

Even the atheists thank god it wasn't them.

—medal of honor. To be. —to be dead.)

"Maybe they'll remember me if I take a bullet in the skull?" 

"Don't talk like that, Jaeger."

"Maybe you'd say my first name."

(Codependence—love, whatever it is. It does not need to be aided by attachment, by want for first names, and love, and affection; _forswear his heart, it was love that killed off Shakespearian fools._ )

_"I ne'er saw true beauty till this night."_

"Shut up, Eren." 

"You—"

_"Be quiet, or, for shame, I'll make you quiet."_

* * *

It is the South Pacific, and they are in love. 

In the South Pacific, they quote plays of a tragic love to pass the time. 

It is the South Pacific, and Levi wishes he were anywhere but. 

(Don't they all?)

Machine gun fire is the equivalent of fireworks. 

And the dirt is a substitute for bedding, sheets on which to hold another—rocks are walls, and their hearts are caged. 

( _"There is no escape from this, Eren."_

_"I know."_ )

The Old Breed is dying. They are all dying with them. 

(They cannot say it was unexpected. Death comes to meet everyone in the end.) 

The enemy pours from caves—from crevices unseen. 1,000 rounds of artillery for each opposing man felled. 

(The Americans say the men down are monsters. They say this to justify themselves. 

They think themselves the true unredeemable creatures.) 

It is hot—far too hot. 120 fahrenheit, moderate for midday.

That's what Eren tells him, that it's _moderate._

His realization is moderate in its intensity; he knew the truth all along. This island, their small hell in the South Pacific, is irrelevant. 

They will die. And it will be irrelevant. 

No one will remember. No one will care, save for his best friend back home. It will not matter, when he dies. 

Not _if._

It is hot. Not moderate. He snaps.

They are sent to the ridge. And Eren is at his side, as he always has been. 

They will not depart this earth. They will stay. Hell is home now, for they never left. 

(They will not depart from one another.)

They were sent to the ridge to win— _to die._

—to capture, _defeat the enemy._

The shot is ringing. 

(They will be torn apart.) 

Their artillery sergeant is out. They are all out. (This is the end.) 

And it's ringing ... ( _ringing, ringing, ringing...._ )

He sees a blossom, and it's beautiful—blooming across his chest. 

He sees Levi—on the ground—shot _ringing..._

Eren did always love red.

**Author's Note:**

> B O N U S POINTS if you can guess the battle
> 
> just do it. 
> 
> Also please let me know what you think, it keeps me refreshed nd not thirsty.


End file.
